The ocean stretches before us like a sheet of hammered silver, while our sandy cove nestles between lava rock outcroppings that look like ancient guardians watching over paradise. The sheer green mountains rise behind us, their peaks disappearing into clouds that promise afternoon rain and cooler air. Chickens peck at crumbs near the kitchen door, while cats lounge in various sunny spots with the dignity of creatures who’ve appointed themselves the official resort welcoming committee.
A rooster suddenly spots one of the cats and takes off after it with the fury of a tiny dinosaur who’s had enough of feline judgment. The cat—I think it’s Spam—bolts across the sand with his tail held high, while the rooster gives chase with impressive speed and questionable reasoning skills.
“So,” Koa says, leaning against the railing, finally allowing himself to relax, “Manager Julep. It has a nice ring to it.”
“I prefer Supreme Overlord of Paradise, but I suppose manager will do for official paperwork.”
“You realize this means you’ll be staying on the island permanently.”
“Is that a problem, Detective?”
“Depends. Are you planning to keep inserting yourself into active investigations?”
“Only if people keep getting murdered in my backyard. Which, fingers crossed, they won’t.”
He turns to face me, and there’s something in those daring brown eyes that makes my heart do interesting things. “You think that’s likely?”
“Well,” I say, moving closer to him in the warm evening air that smells like salt and plumeria and new beginnings. “Living inparadise can be murder. But I think I can handle whatever the island throws at me.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that makes my knees demand to give way. He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his chest, close enough to catch that scent of ocean air and his lethal cologne that makes my brain short-circuit.
My heart starts doing dangerous things as he leans down, his face inches from mine. Those java brown eyes lock onto mine, and I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“I’ll be around,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips.
Then he steps back with that infuriating almost-smile, leaving me standing there like someone who’s just been hit by very attractive lightning and is still processing the electrical charge.
“Good to know,” I manage, though my voice sounds like I’ve been breathing helium.
He turns and walks away, and I watch him go with the distinct feeling that Detective Koa Hale has just mastered the art of leaving a woman wanting more and also possibly dying of anticipation.
That man is trouble—but then so am I.
And at the end of the day, trouble might just be what paradise ordered.
“Just great,” I say as I shake my head in Koa’s wake. Spam lands at my feet, and I pick him up and land a kiss on his furry little forehead. “As fate would have it, I’m falling for the one man that can arrest me.”
The shuffle of footsteps ignites behind me, and I turn to see a redheaded hurricane coming my way.
“Oh!” Ruby suddenly exclaims, appearing at my elbow with her now ever-present clipboard and that gleam in her eye that usually precedes either excellent news or complete disaster. “I almost forgot—we have a very important guest checking in next week.”
“Important how?” I ask, though I’m already mentally calculating whether our newly functional plumbing can handle VIP expectations.
“Coraline Starling,” Ruby announces as if the name alone should explain everything. “She’s the host ofSip, Swirl, Repeat—you know, that cocktail competition show? She’s filming her Mai Tai Mix-Off episode right here at Coconut Cove Paradise Resort!”
Lani appears from the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand. “The one who makes or breaks tropical resorts with a single review?”
“That’s the one,” Ruby confirms. “She’s bringing her entire camera crew, production team, and apparently a list of demands longer than my fourth husband’s excuses for why he couldn’t balance a checkbook.”
I look around at our little slice of paradise—the pools that finally look like water features instead of oozing green bogs, the electrical system that no longer speaks in Morse code, the cats and chickens who’ve appointed themselves our unofficial greeters.
“Sounds great,” I say. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Spam purrs against my chest as if he’s trying to warn me, while somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows with what might be laughter.
I’ve survived one murder, saved a failing resort, and fallen for a detective who could handcuff me to the nearest palm tree at any moment—or his bedpost. Detective’s choice.
But something tells me that mixing cocktails, cameras, and my particular brand of chaos is about to make murder number one look like a practice round—because when you’re cursed with a nickname like Jinx, paradise doesn’t hand you second chances, it hands you body bags.
